The Wayfarer's Daughter: A Time Travel Romance (The Wayfarer Series Book 2)

by Jennifer L. Hayes

  As far as the earl was concerned, Miss Clayton was a person of grave interest in connection with Henry’s shooting and that of Mr. Harry Beauly, a.k.a. Marc Jacob.

  The fact that the marriage certificate was clearly a forgery did not sway his father’s opinion of her guilt. Instead, it strengthened his conviction that she was a most suspicious character.

  Utter nonsense.

  Perhaps he’d be inclined to think more clearly were the puppetmaster, the countess, not whispering in his ear.

  The moment Henry became earl the first thing he would do was send that woman as far away as possible.

  Perhaps Scotland would suit her. He chuckled to himself.

  He lifted a cigar to his lips and lit it with a match.

  A plume of smoke puffed out around him enveloping him in its sweet soothing odor.

  Henry had his own people on the lookout for Miss Clayton. He knew that there was a possibility that she might have suffered injury during her escape. After all, the horse she had been riding had turned up the following day wandering through the quarry. His first thought was of her lying wounded in the forest, but then no gentleman would turn his back on an injured woman. Someone would certainly seek out a doctor.

  Images of that first night he’d found her swept through him like a pleasant dream. Her long blonde hair wet and silky against him as he carried her to the house. Blood soaking the fine fabric of her shift. Skin as white and soft as a babe’s. The delicate collection of freckles on her nose. She was truly the most beautiful creature he’d ever set eyes on. Everything about her told him she was a lady—her carefully trimmed nails, soft unblemished hands, certainly not the hands of a chamber maid or cook. The paleness of her skin and the fine fabrics of her clothes. Even the leather of her shoes spoke of wealth, from Italy as well, not the look of a simple woman. But there was something more.

  It was when she spoke, however, that he’d truly fallen madly in love. She never spoke the words of a well-bred gentlewoman with their ignorance of intellectual opinion. Instead, she spoke as his equal, matching his wit and challenging his views in a way that spread sunshine into his otherwise dreary life. He’d known from the very first meeting that he had finally met his match.

  Then of course his life and obligations had stood in the way of recognizing her for what she truly was.

  He held his head in his hands, despair his very close friend of late.

  He knew unequivocally that he did not deserve her. She was lost, doomed or possibly dead.

  That last thought sucked the breath right out of him. Like he’d been punched in the stomach. His breathing became more ragged, the gunshot wound in his side pulsing with pain as he drew in air.

  That would be by far the worst tragedy. A world without Emma was not a place he wanted to be.

  Emotion swelled in his chest, threatening to burst him into millions of pieces.

  His whole life he’d never lost a moment’s thought for a woman and now this one tormented his soul and threatened to break him completely.

  A knock at his door drew him immediately to his feet. He would not allow anyone to see his weakness.

  “Come in,” he said in a commanding tone, one he did not feel but could muster on demand.

  Phoebus entered the study, his eyes betraying not even a hint of expression.

  “My lord, Mr. Raymond Grant to see you, sir.”

  “Very well.”

  Phoebus moved to the side and allowed Mr. Grant to pass.

  “Good evenin’, Lord Drake.” Mr. Grant gripped his hat in his hands and glanced nervously from Henry to Phoebus.

  “Phoebus, that will be all, thank you.” Henry gave the butler a nod and then redirected his attention to his guest, motioning with his hand for Mr. Grant to enter.

  Phoebus bowed and left quietly, shutting the door behind him.

  “What have you found, Mr. Grant?” It was a struggle to remain calm. Why had the man come in person? That could only mean bad news.

  “Another body, sir, this time it is that of a young woman. Blonde hair. She was found just outside of town.”

  The news he had been dreading. Again the tightening in his chest. Henry feared he might actually be sick, although his face and manner betrayed nothing.

  “When?”

  “This afternoon, sir, it was Mr. Marshall’s lad who found her.”

  “Where is the…body… now?” He struggled with the word. If it was Miss Clayton, he couldn’t think of her in that way. He saw only the life force that made her the woman he adored.

  “St. James’ Parish watch house.” Mr. Grant studied him a moment. “Shall I take you there? Did you want to see if it’s the one you’ve been looking for?”

  Henry swallowed the swell of emotion.

  “Certainly, Mr. Grant, that would be a great kindness.” He forced the steadiness in his voice, his own mouth working independently now after years of practiced detachment. “If you give me a short moment to tidy my affairs I’ll join you in the drive,” he said, the muscles in his jaw skipping and flexing to keep on the mask.

  “As you wish, Lord Drake. I am at your disposal.” Mr. Grant bowed and left the room.

  As soon as the door clicked shut, Henry collapsed into the armchair. He bit down on his own hand to stop the moan of grief from pouring out of him.

  Please don’t let it be her.

  Not only would he not forgive himself, he would make it his life’s mission to seek justice against those who had led to her ruin.

  Chapter 9

  A Lady’s Companion

  Eileen had become a keen adapter.

  She’d been in eighteen fifty-four for a week and had already managed to secure a position in a wealthy home.

  Her own mother had always worked hard to prepare her for travel, teaching her the skills of how to blend in, find food and shelter, her education and knowledge of history always giving her an upper hand. Not to mention her skill as a horsewoman.

  She thought of her daughter, Emma. Had she failed her? The only skill she’d passed on to Emma was horseback riding. Why hadn’t she thought to better prepare her?

  Quit your worrying, she told herself.

  The answer was clear, she’d hoped to shelter Emma from all of it. For Eileen, growing up, her mother always told incredible stories, making it sound exciting. Even taking her on short trips. Field trips, she used to call them.

  In the end, that was how Eileen had become so good at blending in.

  Emma had none of that knowledge.

  What if Eileen was never able to return to her?

  She needed to focus on staying alive and getting home to her sweet girl.

  She couldn’t shield her from it forever. Could she?

  If it meant saving her from the heartbreak and dangers of living between two worlds, then it was worth it.

  Her own heart had been split. Half of it had been left back in eighteen thirty with the man she loved and the other had stayed with the daughter she cherished. She wanted Emma to have opportunities. Be able to choose her own path. Not have those choices made for her.

  Plus, what kind of future would there have been for her and her daughter had she remained?

  The best she could have expected was to be the mistress to the man she loved. Of course, if she’d pushed him, he might have given up everything to marry her but then eventually, she was convinced, he would have resented her for it. How could he not?

  No, she loved him and therefore she’d made the hard choice for them both and left, giving everyone a shot at happiness. Or what she could scrape together to resemble that.

  Her husband was a good man. She held him in very high esteem and he loved her and Emma.

  She was lucky to have at least that. Many women had far less.

  Still, she thought about writing to Charles. How old would he be now? Fifty-two?

  But then what purpose would that serve? She had a daughter in the twentieth century who needed her and him, well, she was sure he had married and had s
everal children by now. It would only bring chaos to both of their lives. No, she needed to stay focused and return to Emma the moment the opportunity presented itself.

  One of the things she still puzzled over was how she’d ended up here in this time. As far as she knew, there was nothing tying her here. No anchor as far as she could tell.

  Eileen finished tying the ribbon around her tiny waist.

  Her nerves felt jittery.

  Today she was going to meet her charge and she wanted to give a good first impression.

  Mrs. Trebor, who had given her employment as a lady’s companion, was going to have her wait on her cousin’s daughter, who was to arrive from Oxwich this afternoon.

  Lady Isobel Drake was the daughter of the Earl of Pembrooke and was to convalesce with them while she recovered from damage she’d received to her lungs during a devastating house fire.

  The air here was fresh and would be helpful, Mrs. Trebor suggested, not to mention a doctor who specialized in those matters and the healing properties of the water in nearby Buxton.

  Eileen was well versed with nobility. She knew how to handle their ‘delicate’ sensibilities and their superiority complex.

  It was also said, by the earl apparently, that Isobel suffered from hysteria from time to time and that the doctor should be prevailed upon to treat her at his discretion. Said exactly in those words.

  Hysteria. That one always made Eileen laugh. A nineteenth-century disease that men had invented to encompass all forms of female dissatisfaction. It was considered only an upper-class disease and one that they believed to be chronic. The way it was treated was by pelvic massage to the point of ‘hysterical paroxysm’—another word for orgasm, she suspected.

  Nineteenth-century medicine at its best.

  With her bonnet fastened neatly to her head, her blonde hair tied up appropriately, she made her way downstairs to be ready to meet their new guest.

  She hoped that the girl would be tolerable. Isobel was twenty and one, Eileen had been told. Even at thirty, Eileen didn’t look a day over twenty compared to the women in this century, her eyes brighter and teeth whiter than most, her skin unblemished from any illness like the pox.

  If anything, she had to be careful not to attract any unwanted male attention.

  She didn’t have to wait long before the sound of a carriage rolling down the drive could be heard.

  With a quick pinch of her cheeks to give her a flushed look, she walked out with the other servants and Mr. and Mrs. Trebor to meet Isobel’s carriage.

  One of the footman carried a small stepping stool to the carriage door and then opened it.

  A gloved hand emerged from the opening, folding delicately on the tips of the footman’s outstretched fingers.

  Much to Eileen’s surprise, it was not a sickly figure that emerged but a very healthy young woman, her dark hair pinned up. A soft freckled face surveyed the greeting party with careful precision.

  “Cousin Isobel.” Mrs. Trebor marched towards her, her feet crunching over the tiny stones on the drive. “How do you fare? You look remarkably well.”

  “I’m quite tired, I’m afraid.” Isobel coughed into a gloved hand.

  “Oh, poor child, let’s see you in and have some tea.” Mrs. Trebor looked towards Eileen, gesturing for her to come forward.

  Eileen walked gracefully to Mrs. Trebor and waited for the introduction.

  “Lady Isobel, I’d like you to meet Miss Eileen Redford,” Mrs. Trebor gushed.

  Eileen suppressed a smirk. On a whim, she’d chosen the surname after one of her favorite American actors, Robert Redford. She’d only just seen the movie Out of Africa.

  “I’m confident the two of you will become fast friends,” Mrs. Trebor said with what Eileen considered ample pride.

  Isobel’s eyes registered a moment of shock. Eileen knew her dress was plain and wondered if she’d underestimated the importance of a more fashionable choice.

  “Emma?” Isobel barely whispered.

  It was audible enough for both Mrs. Trebor and Eileen to take notice of though.

  Eileen’s blood went instantly cold. Suddenly her corset felt too tight and she feared she might actually pass out. She concentrated on a steady breath and keeping her own face a mask of indifference. The coincidence of the mistake was far too close to blow it off completely.

  Her daughter was only a child, she reminded herself and safely situated in California.

  But still, Lady Isobel’s reaction chipped away at her confidence.

  “No, dear, this is Miss Eileen,” Mrs. Trebor said in a singsong voice, hardly noticing anything amiss.

  But Eileen’s mind swirled around the possible significance of the error. Could Isobel have met her daughter?

  Unlikely, she told herself.

  “Of course,” Isobel corrected, “my apologies, Miss Eileen, the trip was so long that most of my senses are a bit tired, I’m afraid. If someone would be kind enough to show me to my room, I’d like to rest a while.”

  “Wilfred!” Mrs. Trebor called out and the butler scrambled to her side. “Please see that Lady Isobel’s things are brought up directly to her bedchamber.” She turned again towards Isobel. “I’ll show you up myself, dear.”

  Isobel gave Eileen a tiny nod and followed Mrs. Trebor inside.

  Eileen stood her ground a moment longer, puzzling over Isobel’s reaction. There had been fear in those eyes, but why?

  A thought occurred to her, what if Emma had been the reason she’d come here in the first place.

  Could Isobel have met an older Emma? If that were so…

  Dread started to snake up Eileen’s spine. That would mean she did not return to her sweet child.

  The thought made her feel weak.

  That could not be so, she would make sure of it.

  And then another alarming thought took hold of her.

  Her daughter might very well be in some sort of trouble.

  Chapter 10

  Coincidence

  Ten minutes earlier

  Isobel looked out the carriage window and stole a glance at her cousin’s estate as they pulled up the drive. It was certainly not as grand as Dormer House—or as Dormer House used to be, she corrected. She supposed now it was in fact grander than her own, since it at the moment was no better than a pile of ash.

  Good riddance!

  Shifting all of the focus from Henry’s ‘accident’ to her near-fatality in the fire she’d caused had certainly been one of her most brilliant moments of cleverness. She surprised even herself with how resourceful she could be when the situation demanded it.

  Her carefully laid plans had been botched by Mr. White’s ineptitude, but she’d come out ahead. Smelling of roses even.

  How she loved that flower; it represented such esteem. Its soft, velvety petals lived closely with sharp, unforgiving thorns. The irony of it was much like how she viewed herself.

  Beautiful and dangerous.

  Papa seemed most grieved at the thought of losing her, even more than she ever could have suspected, a realization that would someday be useful.

  A trip up north to convalesce was a tiny price to pay in order to cleanse herself completely of any wrongdoing.

  Of course, her ultimate goal of removing Henry from his perch of power would have to be re-addressed at a later date.

  For now, she was content to breathe the northern air and contemplate what interesting diversions her time here might hold.

  A small flutter of excitement rose in her belly as she watched everyone gathering to greet her like she was the Queen of England herself. Oh, how she loved the fuss that was made over her.

  Everyone knew that northerners were not as refined as their counterparts in the south. She would demonstrate to everyone how accomplished she was for a gentlewoman her age. Virtuous, elegant and poised, those were the first adjectives that came to mind when she considered her attributes.

  While she’d yet to master more than a few words of French, she was pos
itive that her ability to do so, should she have the right tutor, would be impressive and her progress quick. It was her governess’ fault for her lack of mastery. Truly the woman was dreadful.

  The carriage came to a complete stop and Isobel smoothed her gown and hair, making sure that her presentation would be of the highest standard.

  The door swung open and she glided from the carriage with grace.

  A woman in fine clothes, for a northerner of course, came charging at her.

  “Cousin, how do you fare? You look remarkably well.”

  The comment rang with insult to Isobel’s ears. How dare she address her so informally in public? She took this to be her mother’s cousin Mrs. Trebor. Even less refined than Isobel had hoped. Really, she ought be set to rights.

  “I’m quite tired, I’m afraid.” Isobel puckered her lips. She was already put off the woman. Couldn’t she see that Isobel was actually quite ill?

  “Oh, poor child,” Mrs. Trebor started.

  Her words sounded mocking to Isobel.

  “Let’s see you in and ’ave some tea,” she said and looked around for someone in the crowd. “Lady Isobel, I’d like you to meet—”

  Isobel was already over all the formalities. How much longer must she suffer through this?

  Then something important occurred to her; she hoped she hadn’t left her favorite fan on the train.

  Drat, that would be most inconvenient. She already hated the north.

  “I’m confident the two of you will become fast friends,” Mrs. Trebor gushed.

  With a forced smile Isobel raised her superior gaze on Miss Already-Forgotten and thought immediately she might swoon on the spot. The air in her lungs made an exaggerated swoosh sound.

  What kind of folly was Mrs. Trebor playing at? She recognized the woman standing before her as clear as day.

  “Emma?” Isobel barely whispered, the shock of the introduction making her lips feel numb and detached from her face altogether.